I wander the shores of your distant sea,
a latter-day Demosthenes
a has-been oracle
the pebbles in my mouth
the words themselves, dry and tasteless,
as I shout against unyielding storm,
its voice mightier than my own
now hoarse;
you will not hear my whisper in the gale,
lost in the noise of men,
no antidote to the poison, then,
the quiet murmur of the tide, steadfast and patient as time
Time is not a father; it is a mother,
a womb, bleeding only when empty.
I am Penelope,
always undoing
I weave an epic without fail,
with threads destined to unravel in your absence,
waiting to see your sail,
even in tattered ribbons,
humming my work song,
wishing I’d been born
with the Siren’s lungs.

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